


Kremlin Dusk

by Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard



Series: Flower Rain [3]
Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23711614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard/pseuds/Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard
Summary: Flower Rain in the eyes of Anastasiya Dmitrievna.
Relationships: Dmitry Medvedev/Vladimir Putin
Series: Flower Rain [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627987
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Kremlin Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to another instalment of the Flower Rain series!
> 
> Inspiration for this chapter is this track from the Princess in the Palace OST
> 
> Ice Pond: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZYVj8P2D18
> 
> Information about Eudoxia's life came from Peter the Great: His Life and Work by Robert K. Massie.

Anastasia Dmitrievna's mind has always wondered about the young man from St Petersburg that visited her clinic. She heard the telltale sign that the seed of unrequited love is starting to spread its roots on his lungs. Her curiosity wanted to sate itself, what flowers would bloom forth from someone as bright as he. His smile, even though it was uneasy, can light up her dilapidated office. From that smile, she could tell that he's someone too earnest, someone, that wears his heart on his sleeves. She thought about the object of his affections, will it be someone that can match his brightness? She's confident that they would be. 

She noticed the wedding band on his finger during his visit, a pity. It could only mean that the man is pining, still, for the one that caught his heart. She pities Dmitry Anatolyevich's wife, for she will never attain his heart, and she will always have to fight for a space in his heart. 

The doctor pulls herself from her thoughts and opened up the television. She hears from her patients that one of the candidates is promising, someone that can finally restore their country's former stature and glory. It's their acting president, and he's rather peculiar because, throughout the election campaign period, he never puts himself up for debate with the other candidates. He opts to show his deeds to the people, and she smiled deprecatingly at this—a typical window dressing for your run-of-the-mill politician. 

Today's election is a sham, Boris Nikolayevich has chosen his successor, and their votes are approval stamps that the citizens of Russia are accepting him as their new ruler. She didn't give her approval for she feels that the chosen one is not someone that she can trust for her country. His image felt too fabricated, too immaculate. 

She's watching the election coverage, and the vote counts are coming in. The news anchors are chatting happily as the final votes came through and they announced the name of Russia's new ruler: Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. She shuddered as his picture flashed on the screen. The eyes are a window to the soul as they say, and yet, as she stares at him, she could get a feel of his personality. There's a wall that hid the man's true nature. She has seen a fair share of those eyes; she usually sees them on patients that stubbornly clings to the notion that emotions are detrimental to their lives. 

The image faded out and was showing a press conference from the newly elected president. Surprise surged through her veins as she saw the man beside the president. It's Dmitry Anatolyevich, the current fixation of her mind. She zoned out from Vladimir Vladimirovich spiel as she focuses on his campaign manager instead. 

_Could it be?_

She saw those blue eyes staring at the frigid man beside him with too much love, too much adoration and pining that it's noticeable; only a fool would miss that! Oh, then that budding flower on Dmitry's chest is solely for the man beside him. Vladimir, the president-elect, seems too steep in his ambitions and power. 

_It is unlikely that this man will compensate power for love._

We seek out love to fill our existential loneliness; however, power taints such a pure and beautiful concept. Individuals in a relationship will impose their will, often through seduction, to one another leading to an endless power struggle; a perfect union will only arise if both are willing to shed their identity and become a single entity. 

_No one is willing to let go of their individuality, that's a fact._

True love is a compromise between individuals, and such an understanding does not exist between the men on the screen. It is apparent that what she's witnessing is one-sided, one would burn brightly for the other, and the starry-eyed Dmitry will pay the price. She heard that the president-elect is a former spy, a profession where the subjugation of wills is the norm. Anastasiya already sees the possible outcome for Dmitry Anatolyevich: death. 

She sighs and closes the television, her gaze wandered on the battered book lying on her desk. 

_She hopes that he will not turn out like Her._

Her aides gossiped and looked at her oddly behind her back; they were pleasantly surprised that she's starting to give a damn about politics once again. Politics is a taboo subject in her clinic, and it only worsens her cynicism. She needed to be a beacon of hope for her patients, and she must maintain her cheerful and hopeful self. 

_Call it toxic positivity if you may, but those who are forlorn due to love needed all the hope that they can get._

She must say that the turn of events in the current political system is exciting. Vladimir Vladimirovich has chosen Dmitry Anatolyevich as his successor, and this would be the first time in years that she's casting her vote. Despite the speculation that Dmitry will only be Putin's puppet, she still voted for him for she knew that the man would stray from that connotation and set his path. 

_A sad and pitiful scene._

Now, she's currently watching Dmitry Anatolyevich's inauguration. She can tell that the man in front of him is a fraction of what he once was, his walk became similar to Vladimir Vladimirovich and that demeanour, it looks comical on him, but he tries to carry the same air as his mentor and predecessor. She noticed those shoulders holding a terrible burden, and how his hand hesitated to placed itself on the Russian Constitution - an unwilling participant in the horrid political game. 

Thus, as the Spasskaya Tower tolls, the era of tandemocracy has begun. She continues to follow the story of President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin as if its the hottest TV show that graced her television. Throughout the years, she saw another part aspect of Vladimir Vladimirovich; the man has one constant fear. It's the fear of being cast away, of being overshadowed; his successor was someone that shines too brightly. Vladimir Vladimirovich is comparable to a celestial body that blocks the sun: he hogs all the attention away from the president.

Dmitry's presidency is reaching its end; there's an inexplicable rift between them; it is inevitable for he chose to follow his heart than embark on the path set out by Vladimir Vladimirovich. She noticed that their usual excursion is now limited and the television channels are wholly dedicating themselves to giving the prime minister more exposure than necessary. Perhaps, to remind them who truly wields power in the tandem. Jealousy bloomed from the prime minister's heart, and this desperate move is solely dedicated to wrestling back the love of the citizens of Russia from Dmitry Anatolyevich who gave them new hope and destiny. Like most Russians, she felt betrayed that Dmitry chose to endorse Vladimir in that United Russia rally and relinquish his hold on power. 

_She cannot begrudge the man, for she understood._

Dmitry Anatolyevich genially smiled in relief, the invisible weight of pretensions that drags him to the ground lifts way from his shoulders. The bright, blue eyes stared at the president with such love and adoration as he gave up the reins of his borrowed authority - a vision of total surrender, akin to the saints that laid out their lives for the will of God. Resounding cheers and applause surround the whole room, the emotion from those eyes never wavered, it's owner joining them in jubilation as he beckons Vladimir Vladimirovich to the stage. 

However, on the icy eyes of Vladimir Vladimirovich, she saw nothing but a ruthless desire to break and subjugate everyone back to his yoke - a conqueror out for blood. The short embrace that he gave his protege is an underlying promise that he will break him into pieces, a punishment for going against the flow. 

She skipped watching the presidential inauguration today; as she went out and about in her clinic. Her staff tread on eggshells with her, of course, there is a sudden change in her mood. She abruptly stopped caring about politics after following it closely for almost five years. The tranquil atmosphere in her clinic shattered when she heard the nurse shouting. 

"Sir, please stop! You need to set an appointment to see her!" she turned around and saw the cause of the noise. Dmitry Anatolyevich hurriedly walks towards her clutching a handkerchief in his hand. 

She smiled gently towards him as he stops in front of her and those blue eyes looked so lost. He opened the handkerchief, and she gazed at the petal nestled within, her heart froze, and the smile vanished from her face as the flower that she dreaded and at the same time excited to see lay on it. She grabbed his arm and took him to her office. She pushed him into the only vacant chair and started to rummage for the book that will explain his condition. 

She pulled it out underneath a stack of papers and quickly flipped through the pages and stopped at the correct section. "You are unfortunate, Dmitry Anatolyevich." 

She thrust the book in front of him, and he numbly took it. His bright, blue eyes welled up in tears, and he stares at her unbelievingly as if the information on the book is a horrible joke. Anastasiya grabbed the book back quietly and placed it back on her desk. The outgoing president snickers hollowly as he grabbed and tore at his hair. His breathing ragged as he looked at her in a daze. 

"I'm stupid, so stup-" she cut him off. 

"This is not the time to berate yourself; I need you to listen to me." she sat at one of the numerous book stacks on the floor. Dmitry nodded and tried to wring himself out of his mental breakdown. 

"I do not have enough data about this type of Hanahaki. You are Russia's second case, the one that preceded you happened 400 years ago. According to her data, distance helped stretch her life span; she outlived her beloved and died at the ripe old age of 62. Proximity to your object of affections will worsen your condition and will hasten your death. It would be wise to part with your government job, be distant with Vladimir Vladimirovich." she said and looked at her would be patient calmly. 

He smiled shakily and asked, "How did you know?" 

"Painfully obvious, Vladimir Vladimirovich is the only one that's oblivious to it. Your gaze conveys intense love and pining that it hurts to look at you when I watch you on the television." 

He wrings his hands and looked at her, anxiously, "I do not want to part with him, and I intend to serve him until my final breath. Is there anything that you can do to help me?"

Is he willing to lay his life for that cold man? Dmitry Anatolyevich is offering himself to her; research about the red spider lily hanahaki is lacking, and she should not waste such an opportunity. She could gather more data and study such rarity, from the data that she received from her counterparts that managed to study it tells her the same thing. 

The red spider lily was brought forth by the imbalance on predestined relationships. The one who suffers will always be the one that burned too brightly, that loved too much. The fates are banking on the power of love to spurn the heart of the ones who only took and never gives, to take action. Such realisations always came too late and what they can only offer is a small reprieve from this torment. 

She gave him a determined smile. "If you are certain, then, I will do my best to help you stay alive for as long as you can." 

_Such a vindictive man._

Her assumptions are correct, for the silent oath that Vladimir Vladimirovich vowed to do is happening with tremendous speed. As Dmitry's punishment for his insolence during his presidency, the laws and initiatives that he puts forth vanished, dubbed as De-Medvedization by some political analyst. The president cut down the prime minister's allies one by one, casting them off from their government positions. Those who got a mere slap on the wrist are now acting precariously and distancing themselves from the prime minister. 

Vladimir Vladimirovich did not spare Dmitry Anatolyevich, for he allowed documentaries about his indecision and weakness on the Georgian War appear on state-run channels. However, Dima seems to take it lightheartedly as he tries to smile while denying allegations. 

_He seems to be taking it quite well, but she sees that strained smile and the misery that he resonates._

_Under the auspices of such events, Operation Flower Rain has begun._

Dmitry Anatolyevich indulged her silliness by allowing her to name his plans of dying unnoticed. The operation has three objectives: 

  1. Hide the prime minister's hanahaki
  2. Prolong his life span as much as they can, so he can serve the president as much as he wants. 
  3. Cover up the actual cause of his eventual death.



Such secrets are hard to hide in Russia, for the president has eyes and ears everywhere; one wrong move will have their plans implode on their faces. There are at least five people on their team: the prime minister, herself, Svetlana Vladimirovna, and Vladislav Yuryevich. 

Also, she takes back her former assumptions about Svetlana Vladimirovna. Among them, she has been a part of Dmitry Anatolyevich's ruse for so long, her pity for her changes into admiration that she would go through great lengths to help her friend. A deep platonic love for one another, which everyone will not have the honour of experiencing. It's one of the things that she longs for, but she's afraid to let someone inside her heart. 

_Why wouldn't she? For she has seen how love ravages a person, leaving nothing but dust in its wake._

Vladislav Yuryevich is a new member of their team, Russia's fallen grey cardinal. He took the responsibility of trying to hide the prime minister illness to the press; she wonders how he will do it for his current position does not give him the authority that he once had over the media. A bit snarky and haughty, but his umber eyes hide a secret that did not go unnoticed by her eyes. 

His willingness to protect the prime minister reminds her of a knight zealously protecting his damsel. There's desperation simmering in those umber eyes as it stared at Dmitry Anatolyevich, to offer salvation to the man drowning on the depths of his love, for it has nowhere to go. Frustration is evident on the man's eyes as he can do nothing but to observe the deplorable tale before him; nothing to calm his frazzled nerves. The presidential aide could only hope that the prime minister will attain his wishes in the end. 

"How will we find her grave in this vast monastery grounds?" Dmitry Anatolyevich soft voice asked her as they walked towards the field, distracting her from her thoughts. 

"You'll see," she answered. 

She's offended that the prime minister has not visited the convent even once despite being instructed by the president to draft up plans to restore it to its historical appearance; however, he showed her his aerial photograph of it. Anastasiya gave her patient a stony look as he hastily explained that he had been to the cemetery instead when he attended Boris Nikolayevich's funeral. She led him around Novodevichy Convent fields and started an impromptu history lesson about the tragic tale of Peter the Great's first wife.

"As a means to sway her son, from his unsavoury company of foreigners: Natalya Naryshkina thought that a sweet, simple and loving Russian girl would be enough to distract Peter from his fascination with the West. The Tsar readily agreed not because he wanted to please his mother; marriage is trivial for a mind that yearns for modernity. Oh, here we are." 

They stopped at a rectangular plot of land filled with red spider lilies. "It's easier to find her grave during autumn; it heralds the start of the season." she continued. 

The prime minister shook as he saw the grave, he knelt and started to ghost his hands over the delicate crimson blooms. "I expected that I'd be free from them in death." 

She sat down beside him and patted his back gently; it was easy to console other hanahaki patients, for they have a shard of hope of a warm confession and the flowers that took their breaths to dissipate into thin air as if it did not exist. She understands what the prime minister must be thinking; the symbol of his heart's weakness is out for the world to see - a lesson for those who tread the path of love to take caution, to not to let it burn their whole being. 

"It's a regular occurrence for the graves of those who suffered from red spider lily hanahaki. It serves as a warning for others not to befall the same fate." bitterness shone from those dull, eyes and a wry smile appeared on her patient's lips. 

"I am glad that I'll be useful after I pass." he pauses and looks at her with those doe-like eyes glistening in tears, "Kindly continue your history lesson, please." 

She sighed and cleared her throat. 

"Of course, the Tsar's mother chose Eudoxia Feodorovna; she could have been the perfect wife for any Muscovite tsars with her meekness, conventionality and her eagerness to serve her husband and be his principal slave. It's typical for the Tsarinas to hail from the lowest aristocracy." 

She gently holds on to the bloom on the ground as she continues her tale. "She's three years older than Tsar Peter, but her beauty is not enough to enchant him. He merely gave her a passing glance during the selection ceremony, but she's still hopeful that one day she'll be able to ensnare his heart. Pushed into a friendless place, she tried her best to win him over. The match is a disaster; she represents what the Tsar who pushed Russia to modernity loathed, a shackle that bounds him still to the backwards world that he longs to escape." 

"When did she start to have her Hanahaki?" Dima gestured to the flowers on the ground; they bloom even brighter as the autumn sunset cascaded on them. 

"Tsar Peter is not always around, his fascination with anything western and shipbuilding made him physically and emotionally unavailable for the Tsarina. She did fulfil her duties as a Tsarina and has provided an heir to the throne, Tsarevich Alexis Petrovich. Due to her backwardness, they've become too estranged with one another; she did bore him another son who sadly died. The Tsar did not attend the funeral of his second son, and there are blood splatters in her letters of lamentation to her husband. Devoutly Orthodox raised to despise foreigners, her hatred and jealousy for them grew for they steal her husband away." 

A slight breeze disturbed the flowers, making it sway as if telling them to move along and never disturb the occupant. She stood up, and the prime minister followed suit. Dima pulled out his phone from his pocket and snapped a quick photo of the grave, and started to stroll out of the convent. 

"When his mother passed, Tsar Peter finally took it as a chance to cast off his remaining links to the past. He ordered his wife to take the veil which she did reluctantly and had her banished to the Intercession Convent in Suzdal. There's a brief moment that the Tsar took noticed of her when he heard about her unusual affliction; however, his courtiers and mistresses dissuade him from seeing her, it might be a ploy to reinstate herself back to the imperial court."

"Oh, great they are here. Word travels fast." she hears the prime minister mutter. She followed Dima's gaze and spotted a few burly men in the distance. 

"Who are they?" she inquired as she followed the man's example of ignoring the men and hurriedly went inside the car. It's a weekend, supposedly and the prime minister is visiting the convent on his leisure and will not need any security. 

"Vladimir's spies," Dima says as he started the car and drove out of the convent. 

"Seems like your boss doesn't trust you enough." 

"He's paranoid." the prime minister simply said as he drives calmly. "Care to tell me the rest of the tale as a distraction?" 

"She and her son Tsarevich Alexei Petrovich became figureheads for the opposition that opposes the Tsar's reforms. The Tsarevich opposed his father's plans to raise him as a successor for he felt nothing but disdain for the man that broke his mother's heart. The Tsarevich defected to Austria to flee from his father; it causes an uproar in the imperial court. Seeing it as treachery, Tsar Peter had their son prosecuted but died in custody. Throughout her whole life, the authorities transfer her from one place to another. She died still spewing the flowers, but she never despised the Tsar despite experiencing cruelty and apathy on his hands." 

She ends her tale and stared at the road, she heard a sigh and turned her head towards the prime minister who wears a weak smile on his face. "Do you want to listen to my life story? Perhaps, you'll find it amusing." 

She nodded, and the prime minister starts to weave the story of his life. Her heart leapt in her throat as he confesses his most profound memories of his sorrows, of his pain. A doll abused, used and discarded by its owner when it has served its purpose. His tale uncovered the reason why the roots on his lungs kept growing at an alarming rate; being intimate with someone is being too close person as he surrenders himself fully to the president. 

"You should have told me this earlier, this is dangerous! You should cease that relationship with the president. It will not do you good for you'll keep associating it as a sign of his affections when you very well know that it's not." she said incensed that her patient did not disclose such vital information. 

"He broke it off last month. You do not need to worry." 

There are rumours that the president's long time mistress gave birth to a baby boy a few months ago. She can tell that the prime minister does not begrudge Vladimir Vladimirovich for taking that decision, Dmitry cares not for his happiness and he'll willingly give it up for other's sake. 

_How fascinating that there is a tremendous parallel between Russia's first and second case of red spider lily hanahaki._

A week has passed since the death of her favourite patient; a few tears fell from her eyes as she recalls Dmitry Anatolyevich. The president offered him salvation when he's too far gone on the precipice of hope, letting himself fall on the void of his fears. She brushed them off, picked up her cup of tea and took a sip to calm her down. She sets down her cup; it's no use to dwell on the past. What she can only do is to further her studies about the red spider lily hanahaki so that it can spare the other sufferers from a grim fate. 

The former prime minister insists that she accepts monetary compensation for her services, but she turned it down, saying that allowing her to document his hanahaki is enough. 

_"As a dying man's request, won't you please clean up your office? It's a fire hazard." the prime minister said exasperatedly._

_"It is called organised chaos, Dima," she replies, and the man chuckled at her._

She complied with his request as a way to honour her friend, and he's right. It's been years since she last saw her study in such a pristine state. The pile of papers that she's unwilling to let go are patient files, comprised of confessions too late and shattered hearts. A prisoner of her past blunders, it is freeing to break such chains and give herself entirely to her goal. The knocks on her door disturbed the peaceful atmosphere. 

"Come in!" 

The door swung open and it revealed her secretary with the president in tow. Her eyebrows rose in surprise as she meets the icy gaze, but there is something different from it. It reminds her of the first cracks on the ice as Lake Baikal thaws. 

"Did the president schedule an appointment, Anastasia Dmitrievna?" her secretary asked. 

"He's overdue," she replied, and the secretary nodded and let Vladimir Vladimirovich inside. She gestured to the vacant seat in front of her desk, and the man sat down. He pulled out a book from his coat pocket and gave it to her. 

Eudoxia Feodorovna's biography that she lent to the man came back to her looking new if it weren't for the tanned pages denoting its age. She placed it down on her desk and laced her fingers together. "What brings you here, Vladimir Vladimirovich?" 

The president anxiously fixed his tie, such a far cry from the image that he presents to the media. It was the same image that she saw back then on the small chapel, a man exuding an aura of a lost child as he continuously runs his hand through Dima's wispy hair. Those thin lips which often utters harsh words against Russia's enemies pressed into a hard line, restraining himself from saying words that he should have spoken. She did watch a couple of government meetings since Dima's passing, and she noticed that the man started to wear purely blue neckties, perhaps, it's arbitrary or a way to honour Dmitry Anatolyevich. 

"You knew all this time, and you lead me like a fool. You offered me that book which gave no other options to save Dima. I confessed, but death still took him away." Vladimir Vladimirovich gritted out, and she saw the man gripping his lap tightly. 

"I cannot tell you explicitly; it would break the confidentiality between my patient and me. In our first meeting, I lured you in by giving out clues, have I not? Your stubbornness and your beliefs were detriments." she fumbles the teacup's handle as her bottle-green eyes steadily meet the president's furious gaze. 

"I suspected that you were hiding something from me. I should have forced you to give me answers. Why did Dima die then? Your notes in the book said that confession is a fool-proof way to save him!" 

"You seem to have skipped the remaining explanations, Vladimir Vladimirovich. You had to convince him, and you failed. Do you think he'll easily believe you after what he went through from your hands? From your reaction in the letter, I inferred that he denied your confession. His denial caused the blooms and roots on his chest to overwhelm his lungs, shaving off the last two days that he would have had." 

The president's eyes widened in astonishment, his lips trembling as he looked askance at her as if refusing to believe the information that she revealed that he had a hand on Dima's death. She could tell that it is a massive blow for the president, see the cogs turning on his mind as he tried to come up with words to castigate her. 

"You should honour Dima's wishes; he'll be disappointed that you keep chasing after a sliver of memory and not letting yourself live," she said calmly, and the man furiously stood up and put his hands on her desk. He leaned forward to pin her with his chilling glare. 

"How dare you call him a sliver? He's much more than a shard of my memories, and you dared to tell me to forget? The past two weeks have proved nothing but how I took him for granted, how I would always expect his presence at my side." she's taken aback as tears drop from the president's eye and into her desk, staining it. 

These tears are not the same one that she witnessed in that political rally which in the strongman before her cried at will. Misery and longing anoint these tears rolling down the man's gaunt cheeks. Regret is such a dreadful emotion to feel; it haunts your waking moments, trapping your mind in the hell of what-ifs and what-could have been. However, it is such a powerful teacher for it alters one's disposition, it taught everyone that experienced it to love freely and cherish every moment. 

"I want him to haunt me, disrupt my day to day life. To hear his scorn-" she places a hand on Vladimir's cheek which cut off his tirade. Her thumb gently wiped away a tear; she donned a comforting smile on her face as she hushed him. 

"For such a gentle soul, he'll never do that to anyone most of all to you. You should do what he has said to you in the letter if you want to honour his memories; it's the least you can do," she said softly, and the man bats her hand away. She let out an exasperated breath as the president composes himself and wiped the tears with such force that she's afraid that his hand might tear his face away. 

"I'll take my leave." the man says gruffly.

"Let me see you out," she said as she stood up from her seat and accompanied the president out of her office. 

Grief became Vladimir Vladimirovich's downfall, the man beside her is nothing but a shadow of his former self. Who would have thought that love would soften the man? Would melt the infamous eyes that Dima described as cold and unforgiving as the harsh Siberian winters. The haughty walked is replaced by the stomp of dejection, another burden has added itself on the man's shoulders: a wish to the heavens to bring back his beloved. 

She watches as the president went inside of his car and drove off to his residences. A wistful smile appeared on her lips. 

_Insignificant?_   
_You are wrong, Dima._   
_He mourns your passing as much as we do._

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you think :3 
> 
> I am currently in the works on re-writing some chapters of Meet Me on the Equinox and Flower Rain's 2nd chapter :D  
> I might upload the edited version of Flower Rain Chapter 2 later.  
> For now, I am going to take a nap.


End file.
